When You In Your Little Minaret

When You In Your Little Minaret When you in your little minaret of bone, Find panniers of unexpected light, Illuminating myths behind the lids ­ Its power source unknown.

When you receive God's air mail in your head And start to write great words into your book, Tamp down the pride that winnows in the brain And slow the dance of natural elation.

You are but fortunate with grace – hot with creation.

It does not mean a thing. It isn't you.

The energy may stop at any time, Though you have settled on the perfect rhyme And may never come again Into your poet's trembling pen.

Carl Estrin